Mercy
by PhoenixKeir
Summary: There are no heroes... in life, the monsters win. Daryl Dixon, and doing what needs to be done, regardless of how dirty his hands are at the end.


"There are no heroes...in life, the monsters win." -George R.R. Martin

* * *

The heat was brutal, the cracked pavement beneath Daryl's knee heating up against the rays filtering through the gaps in the foliage. His crossbow was slung across his left shoulder, strap twisted between his index finger and thumb. His right knee was pressed against the ground, the fabric of his jeans tearing as he twisted his body to face the footsteps closing in on him.

He trained the M4A1 on the corner, abandoning his grip on his crossbow to rest his finger against the trigger, squinting against the brightness of the evening. His fingers were slick, bright red blood smearing across the grip as he prepared himself to gun down whoever was coming towards him.

To his relief, though he would never admit it, Rick slammed around the corner, ducking his head as bullets rained down on him. He dropped into a crouch beside Daryl, his own gun in hand and at the ready.

But Christ, if they weren't screwed to hell this time.

It was routine. It should have been routine, except they can't have something like a _good_ _day_ for once in their lives.

Just a simple supply run, gone horribly wrong. As if finding the stores already ransacked and empty wasn't enough, they had managed to run into a group of fully armed, fully trained men, who were more the 'shoot first, ask questions later' sort of people. They were damn good shots too, one of them having managed to catch Daryl in the shoulder, right against his collar bone. It had surprised him though, the splatter of his own blood across his face and neck, in his eyes as the bullet tore straight through him.

It hadn't been too bad at the start, with the adrenaline forcing him to keep moving, but now, crouching on the asphalt he could feel the blood dripping through his shirt and down his arm. The shaking in his hands had gradually worsened, turning into small tremors that shook through his entire body. Hell, if Daryl hadn't messed himself up truly and well this time. Couldn't even aim his damn gun straight, let alone load a bolt into his crossbow.

Rick wasn't looking so hot either, the lines of his face hardened and expression dark. Still, it failed to hide the worry and guilt creasing the lines of his forehead. He had always been something of an open book, and it was written across his face and eyes.

"Carl..." Rick started, looking to Daryl.

Daryl's heart had long since dropped to his stomach, but he said, "Saw him head the other way,"

He jerked his head briefly to the left, in indication of the direction he had seen Carl moving in before they had more pressing issues on their hands, mainly the fire from the semi-automatics that had been raining upon them. Daryl sees the realization cross Rick's face the second after he speaks, and he feels sick, in a way that can't be blamed on the fact that he was covered in his own blood.

Carl had been with three other people, two men and one woman, all former members of Woodbury. They had been separated when the attack started, caught unaware, and they had all split for the nearest cover they could. Which in the case of the Carl, meant sprinting for cover to the left, where Daryl could now clearly see that more men had been waiting beneath the cover of the trees.

He said a silent prayer, to a god he had never believed in, that just for once, something went right and that Carl was safe somewhere, that the men wouldn't have cared enough to chase after a child.

Rick's face had hardened into something like anger, and determination. He looked to Daryl, and paused for a second, eying the other man. Daryl could see him taking in his features, the dirt and blood caked on his skin.

"Alright?" Rick asked, quietly.

"Just peachy," Daryl told him. He nudged him with his good shoulder, gesturing round behind them. "C'mon, we can go around, behind those shops. Stay outta' the line of fire."

They did so, moving cautiously, so as not to draw attention. Daryl had already concluded that they had long since lost sight of them, and the shooters were mostly just firing in hopes of keeping them pinned down. Or to draw walkers on them.

Some of them were lingering around the corner they turned, and Daryl let Rick take the lead and dispatch them with his knife, instead covering their backs as they moved further in the direction that Carl had gone off. They made it to the treeline after long moments of moving slowly, keeping close the ground. To their luck, or maybe misfortune, the shooters seemed to have cleared off.

Daryl only hoped they left a trail to follow, in case they couldn't find Carl. He tried not to let himself think too hard on the possibility, but it was hard when Rick was by his side and the thought was practically radiating off him.

They combed through the bushes for some time, before Daryl finally picked up the boy's footprints in the dirt. There were three different sets, and one of them were clearly military. Daryl resisted the urge to curse, because that meant Carl, and one of the Woodbury men had been caught by these assholes. Which left the question of what had happened to the other woman from Woodbury.

Turns out they didn't have to look far for the answer, because not long after they began following Carl's trail, they came across the bodies. They were riddled with bullet holes, and they were lying in pools of their own blood. Daryl exhaled hard, glancing at the bodies. _Jenny, _and _Mike_, his mind supplied him. He hadn't know them well, but they had seemed like decent people.

They didn't have the time to mourn, or for a proper burial at the moment, so Daryl murmured a quiet, "Sorry, you deserved more," to the lifeless bodies, before he moved past them. Rick pulled his Python out, and he put a clean bullet through both of their heads. They always took care of their own, that much hadn't changed.

They moved on. They followed the tracks for another four kilometers before they heard voices in the distance. The night had gradually darkened by the time they had actually reached the camp. Daryl shared a look with Rick before they both split off in different directions, taking care to stay within the others line of sight. There was a large group of people, surrounding a tiny camp fire. Through the dim lighting he could make out a large group of women and children, their wrists tied together.

A surge of anger flared hot through his veins as he took in their anguished faces. A cursory glance at Rick showed that he wasn't alone in his sentiments. Daryl pushed it aside for the moment, scanning the faces, nearly jumping in joy when he found Carl sitting back against a log, wrists bound behind his back and looking miserable and terrified. He gestured at Rick, and the man followed his gaze, something like relief flashing across his face when caught sight of his son, relatively unharmed.

Which only led to a series of more complicated problems, like how in the _hell _they were supposed to get him out of there.

Daryl counted eight men on guard, scanning the perimeter, and there were at least three dozen more scattered around the camp in different areas. Turns out, he didn't have to think on it too hard because he detected a flash of movement behind him and he spun around, only his head ended up spinning and his vision blacked out from the sudden movement.

_Blood loss, _cursed Daryl, right before a rifle slammed against the side of his head, sending more blood across his face. He pressed a hand to the side of his head from his position on the ground where he had been knocked from his crouch. Blood seeped through his fingers and ran down into his eyes.

A hand tangled in the back of his hair and pulled his face up. Daryl blinked the blood out of his eyes, trying to focus on the man in front of him. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat, and his shoulder felt like it was burning off. By the time he actually managed to regain his bearings, he realized the man had dragged him forward by the shirt into the center of the camp.

The rifle pressed against the back of his neck forced him to his knees on the dirt and Daryl could only stare as a man, clearly the leader, approached from somewhere off to his left.

Truth was, Daryl had always thought that he would be ready to face death whenever it came to meet him. His whole life had been that way, balanced precariously on the edge of survival. Since the world ended, he had hoped that he would go out with something like a bang. A couple dozen walkers wouldn't seem like so bad of a swan song. Sacrificing himself to let the others survive. He had always thought it would have _meaning._

Not like this. Not kneeling in the middle of a circle, with a bunch of inhumane creatures leering at him.

Daryl got to his feet, ignoring the warning press of the gun into his back, fully intending to meet his fate on his own two feet.

The leader smiled at his actions. He came to a halt face-to-face with Daryl. He had dark hair and dark eyes, and a smile full of ice.

"Brave, aren't you?" The man asked, eyes glinting in the firelight. Daryl sincerely hoped that Rick stayed wherever he was hidden and didn't do anything _stupid,_ leaving all these people to ruin in an attempt to save Daryl.

"Sure," Daryl said, and it came out a lot more confident than he thought it would.

The mans grin only widened, and he took in the bloodstained clothing and skin, before he turned and glanced around the fire.

"So, let me guess. Rescue mission gone wrong?" The man asked.

At Daryl's silence, he continued, "So which one of them was it? Which of these people did you come here for?"

Obviously, Daryl didn't grace that with an answer. Although, he doubted the man really expected one.

"You seem like a good man, am I right?" The man went on again, "So I'll offer you a deal."

He walked around the circle and stopped beside a little girl. He caught her by the arm and tugged her to stand in front of Daryl.

Daryl stared. Her eyes were wide, terrified blue orbs, and her blonde hair was a tangled mess on top of her head. She looked like the picture of innocence, couldn't be any more than six or seven.

"What the fuck," Daryl started, furious.

"Oh, I'm not finished yet," The man smirked, all teeth. "Not quite yet."

And to Daryl's growing horror, he strode straight to Carl and dragged the boy to stand beside the blonde. Carl, in spite of his growing maturity and experience with adversity, Daryl hadn't seen him look so much like a kid in a long, long time. The bravado had fallen away, leaving a terrified boy in it's wake. Daryl shifted his weight on his feet, a sickening feeling settling in his gut as every second passed.

"So here it is. I'll let you go free," He began, voice falsely lilting. "All you have to do, is kill one of the-"

"Fuck you," Daryl cut in, wanting to tear the man apart with his bare hands.

"Kill one of them, and you and the surviving one can go free. But if you don't kill one of them, I'll slaughter both of them, and then you." The man finished, looking amused. "Your choice."

The man tugged a pistol free from his belt and offered it to Daryl. He didn't take it.

"How about, you kill me? And let them both go free," Daryl offered, so _goddamn _desperate and horrified.

"No negotiations. It is what it is," The man told him, shaking the offered pistol in his hand to emphasize his point.

Daryl took the pistol. Silence had settled around the circle, the men watching with interest, while the children and woman watched in horror. In his scan of the woman, his eyes locked onto a young blonde haired woman. She was gazing at him, pleading. Her fingers were wrapped around a chain around her neck and tears were streaking down her cheek as she looked at Daryl.

_The girls mother, _Daryl realizes. And just what the_ fuck_ is he supposed to do in a situation like this?

Since the world went to hell, Daryl has killed people. He has killed other men, armed, and just as ready to kill Daryl at the first chance.

Carl and this little girl, are neither a threat nor deserving of this. They are unarmed, and they have no choice in this. They are _children._ Children are not meant to be in the middle of an armed conflict. They were supposed to be learning how to ride their bikes and do long division.

When Daryl was a boy, his father never meant much to him. He beat the tar out of Daryl every other day, leaving him with smears of purple, blue, and red all across his skin. But in one of his moments of clarity, when he wasn't smashed out of his mind, he said something that had always stuck.

He had been teaching Daryl to hunt, and he had given him the rifle and they were both standing in front a deer. It's so pretty, a young and naïve Daryl had thought at the time. When he said as much, his father just looked at him.

_When you kill something, Daryl, _his father had said,_ you have to look it in the eyes. You have to be able to live with it, and look it in the face. If you can't do that, you have no business killing it._

And Daryl had looked the deer in the eyes, and pulled the trigger. Watched the light leave it's eyes, and thought to himself, I'm a horrible person.

It feels like an eternity ago, but Daryl finds himself remembering it now, so many lifetimes later.

The pistol in his hand feels like it weighs a million pounds, and he thinks once again, _I'm a horrible person._

The truth is, Daryl has never lacked conviction. He has always been able to live with his decisions, always been able to justify himself. He's never had a problem with doing what needs to be done, no matter how dirty it makes his hands. But the _thing _is, Daryl doesn't think he can live with this. How could he?

Merle, if he were still alive, would be mocking him. _C'mon baby bro, s'time to grow up. Man up, and do what you have to do._

_But fuck,_ isn't he just selfish? He can't be thinking about what he can and can't live with, when he's got two children sitting in front of him with their lives on the line. Neither Carl nor the little girl have spoken, both are simply staring at him in motionless horror.

He can only save one of them, and the truth is, there's really no choice to make.

Rick is somewhere off behind him, and he won't be able to face the man ever again after what he is about to do. He doesn't think he could ever raise his gun at Carl and shoot the kid regardless. Not after seeing him shoulder the weight of his mothers death, and take responsibility for his sister. He just can't.

But that means shooting this innocent little girl, who has so much potential, so much life left to live. Daryl would gladly trade positions with her, in a heartbeat. He, who is worth so little, against this girl, worth everything. _The children are our future,_ thinks Daryl. How am I supposed to _do _this?

"You've get ten seconds, before I blow both of their brains out." The man tells him, watching Daryl's internal struggle with something like interest.

Daryl shuts his eyes for a brief moment, letting his breath exhale out of him.

Growing up, his mom always told him _I'll always be proud of you, no matter what you do, Daryl. _

He wonders what she would think of him, if she could see him now. How _utterly pathetic,_ Daryl thinks. Worrying about things like that at this time.

"Five seconds."

Daryl lifts the pistol in front of him. His hand is shaking so badly, he's not even sure he can aim it. He steadies it with his free hand, and looks up, directly into the bluest eyes he has even seen in his life.

_When you kill something, you have to look it in the eyes. You have to be able to live with it. If you can't do that, you have no business killing it._

Daryl takes in the tear streaks down her cheeks and the dirt smeared across her pale skin. He lets his eyes linger on her hands, clutching a stuffed teddy bear that had undoubtedly seen better days. So goddamn innocent.

Daryl hates himself.

He looks once more into blue, blue, eyes. And then pulls the trigger.

He has to wonder, who the real monster is.


End file.
